Stay
by Stephane Richer
Summary: Cause when you never see the light it's hard to know which one of us is caving


Stay

Disclaimer: I don't own Rihanna and Mikky Ekko's recording of "Stay" or Tite Kubo's _Bleach._

* * *

He gets up, the moonlight bathing him in a glow that makes him look radioactive, like those superheroes in the American comics she'd read, and she almost (almost, but not quite) asks him if he'll be her superhero. But still, she doesn't let it slip out of her mouth and away from her control. She may be drunk, but she's not so drunk she's completely delusional.

His hat stands out from his head like…like…she doesn't know what it's like but it's striking and she can feel the grin plastered to her face like paper-mache, like it's some kind of mask (is this what Ichigo feels when his hollow mask comes on? And why is she thinking of Ichigo at a time like this?) that's sticky and dries fast, too fast to take off.

She didn't really mean to get this drunk, but the damn party was so boring and glum (seriously, the war was over! Shouldn't they celebrate or at least relax?) and the atmosphere sobered her up but the minute she got outside she could do nothing but giggle and walk around aimlessly, and Kisuke, who was out for a breath of fresh air, offered to walk her home.

Anything to get her out of there. That somber feeling was digging its way into Rukia's bones, like the war would never be over, not ever, and there was nothing she could do, and she leaned into him heavily, staggering as she walked, but able to make her way back.

And here she is, sitting on the bed, just smiling at him. He's smiling back, a bit confused, and she reaches out a hand but underestimates the distance between them and she almost staggers and falls forward, but he's there to catch her and she flops her head on his chest.

"Please, stay," she murmurs into his chest, and what can he do? She finally seems content, if tipsy, and they're both fully-clothed and she's already fast asleep by the time he's thought this all through. Oh, well. Que sera, sera, as they said.

Luckily, he's still awake when Byakuya comes in to check on her, and Kisuke motions (as best he can without waking her) as if to say, "What can you do?" Byakuya isn't happy, but he doesn't look angry (although it's always hard to tell with him) so at least that's something.

He wakes up cramped, and she's still asleep, but he's able to place her in her bed just fine without waking her, and leaves through the garden. It's a while before he sees her again.

He's just hanging out, shooting the breeze with Yoruichi, but then she walks by and he has to say hello and then it just kind of flows from there. She's blushing, but it's not awkward at all, rather, he can't focus on whatever Yoruichi says or even what Rukia says because he's too busy looking at her, her hair and her face and her neck and that perfect steely look in her eyes and oh shit, when did this happen? Everything was okay and natural that time after the party, but maybe he didn't notice because she was drunk and he was only half-sober and there was no one else around and Yoruichi gets up and leaves and neither of them really notices.

They pay the bill, get up, and walk down the street, hands finding one another as if on their own, her small hand dwarfed by his as he drums his fingers on hers and she smiles at him and they're the only ones on the street, in the whole damn district at that moment.

They go back to her mansion, entering the way he left last time, and she double-bolts the door and they lose their clothes almost immediately and finish what they never got around to starting outside their heads.

His hands roam all over her body as if he'll never get a chance to touch her again and she is strident but careful with her touch, as if she's got only a limited amount of times to touch him today and like she's maybe trying to restrain herself and fuck that feels good when she touches that spot right there, and their moans intertwine in a cacophonous harmony that only they understand really.

She's sleeping again when he makes a move to leave, but something about her pulls him back when he's half-dressed and he snuggles next to her. She opens her eyes (much more of a light sleeper when her slumber's not alcohol-induced) and smiles at him.

"You have to go?"

He nods. "I have work…and such."

"I saw you in my dream." She kisses him lightly, surprisingly tender.

"What were you dreaming about, mm? I wonder."

"Randomness," she shrugs and pulls away.

He pulls on the rest of his clothes, his hat and his sandals and then crawls back in again.

She looks like she's somewhere between amused and put off. "Hey, didn't you say you had stuff to do?"

He wonders if they'll ever meet like this again. He feels more satisfied, but it's definitely something he'd do again with her. At the same time, he doesn't want to make her even more tired of him than she already might be. Memories are nice things to have and to treasure, so he breathes in her scent and kisses her cheek.

"I'm going now, okay?"

"Yeah."

And he turns, bathed in the window's sunlight again. Her eyes are closed again; perhaps she's gone back to sleep. Perhaps these are bookends. He wishes she would ask him to stay again, but perhaps that's against his better judgment. The only sounds made are his clogs through the garden, though the streets.


End file.
